


The sweetest apple is the one that's yet to ripe

by Beanwhile



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, Forest Sex, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:49:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beanwhile/pseuds/Beanwhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are we ever going to be free?" Galahad whispers, heroically battling the sobs that thin his voice.<br/>"Are we not free now?" Tristan murmurs, true to his belief that things could always get worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sweetest apple is the one that's yet to ripe

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after Arthur brings them the hot news that they have more shit to do.

                The bird screeches and flies from his extended arm.

                Tristan sighs. Galahad is a formidable opponent in battle and a formidable pest when drunk. The thrashing of the youth (for who else could get himself completely drunk and head for the forest, instead of the nearest willing woman's bed?) echoes somewhere close, and a big bush protests loudly when Galahad rockets through it, only to trip on his own foot and plant himself on the soft rug of fallen leaves.

                A loud snort rustles the leaves around Galahad's face, followed by something resembling a giggle. He jumps back on his feet, struggling with the force of wine spinning his head, and takes the remaining few steps towards the tree Tristan was leaning against. Tristan himself watches with mild curiosity the parade of cheap alcohol; mostly because this isn't the first time he is forced to be a spectator of it.

                "Oh, we celebrate! Let's celebrate!" Galahad slurs and aims a few supposedly friendly punches at his friend, half of which miss completely and the others are effortlessly deflected by Tristan, who remains otherwise silent. "Oooh, look at you, tall proud warrior... Are youf... you... you must be ashamed of the... the pup who runs from the bag... the big bad Saxons, eh? Eh, Tristan?!" Galahad continues his loud rant against Tristan, his hands delivering weak punches all over Tristan's torso and arms, fumbling fingers tugging at the cloth and leather.

                "If you think yourself a pup then it surely must be so." Tristan murmurs, more to himself than to Galahad, who is drunk enough to a point where he's more interested in rhetoric, rather than actual dialogue.

                "Oh, what does it even matter what I think! Arthur says, Arthur does, and the rest must follow!" Galahad protests and tugs with unexpected force at the sleeve of Tristan's deflecting arm. "Who cars... who... who cares what I think..." he nearly wails and reaches for one of Tristan's braids, but that movement, too, is stopped halfway towards its target.

                "Run away then." Tristan offers, slightly increasing the grip on Galahad's hand. "And keep your pup tail from wagging around too much." he adds, bemused.

                "As if!" Galahad yells and thrusts his head forward in an attempt to headbutt Tristan. The latter wrinkles his nose ever so slightly when Galahad's curls tickle it. It's not unpleasant, but it leaves a demanding itch.

                The effort hurls Galahad's limp body after his drunken head and Tristan has to grab him by the back of his tunic in order to prevent another flop. He is tempted, for a moment, to let it happen, perhaps even walk over the drunken body and head to bed - they had to be on their way early in the morning and sleep was a luxury these past few months; but his hand had already darted and caught the drunk. Galahad attempts another assault but Tristan hurls him against the tree and the force of the collision finally stills Galahad's drunk and angered body. For the first time this evening they look directly into each other's eyes.

                Tristan sees things he doesn't really expect, yet they hardly surprise him. Galahad is the youngest of them, practically a boy, compared to the others. And while he is a skilled and loyal warrior, he isn't ashamed to put himself and the pursuit of happiness first. He was a boy playing soldier whilst the others were burying their blossoming youth under mountains of corpses; now he is a youth who wants what he has been promised whilst the others are loyalty embodied, with hearts of pity beating for Arthur's impossible dream.

                They share a long silence. The seconds wash away Galahad's bitter face to reveal pain and exhaustion. His breath still stinks of cheap wine but his eyes slowly sober, nearly melting when he speaks again.

                "You know I won't run." he states and his voice is unusually pitched.

                "I know." Tristan confirms and his grip on Galahad's shoulder slackens.

                Galahad's trembling fingers hold onto Tristan's tunic; his body shakes and his thick curls tremble with his effort of restraining his tears. A sob escapes his throat and he tries to mask it as a cough or burp, but it doesn't work and his uneven, gasping breaths continue to tear the silence surrounding. Tristan waits, keeping his own silence. Comfort is futile; he waits for Galahad's contained bitterness to spill, for the poison to be let out until nothing but numbness and exhaustion remains.

                Galahad reaches for Tristan's braids again and the latter allows the hold - the fit of anger has passed. The corner of his mouth twitches as he feels the pull when Galahad fists his hair and pulls their faces close.

                "Are we ever going to be free?" Galahad whispers, heroically battling the sobs that thin his voice.

                "Are we not free now?" Tristan murmurs, true to his belief that things could always get worse. Chains are definitely not to his liking, for example.

                His breath nearly hitches in his throat at the sight of Galahad's face - the spotty moonlight bathing the round face, the youth of which even the impressive, bushy beard cannot hide; the dilated pupils and the flushed cheeks beneath the welling tears over his lower eyelids. And then Galahad is kissing him with all the passion he had beforehand emptied into drinking and fits. His breath stinks of wine, but there's a unique taste beneath, the taste of Galahad's tongue, and Tristan can't explain to himself why he rushes in, besieging and conquering that sweet mouth; why his hands grip at the waist of the other man, pinning him against the tree but also holding him in place, and the only place acceptable is in Tristan's embrace.

                Galahad's body twists in pleasure, seeking more contact and friction. His hips buck against those of Tristan and make him press the youth harder against the tree. They buck, and press, and grind against each other and the arousal makes Tristan gasp for air. Galahad is chanting his name while his tipsy fingers fumble with Tristan's tunic. Tristan takes to dispose of it and Galahad's fingers immediately run down to busy themselves with the stings of Tristan's pants. He doesn't even bother taking them off, just sinks his fingers and grips at Tristan's hard cock. Tristan hisses with pleasure against Galahad's neck and then continues assaulting it with his teeth and tongue; he cares little about the tell-tale traces he leaves - Galahad could easily excuse himself with an unnamed woman in the morning.

                Galahad takes his hands out of Tristan's pants and gently pushes at his chest, just enough to make himself some space to move. He drags himself against the hard bark of the tree, leaving a wet trail on Tristan's chest and stomach with his tongue. When his knees hit the ground his hands pull at Tristan's pants. He teases the tip of Tristan's cock with his tongue before opening his mouth and hungrily taking in as much of it as his mouth allows him.

                Tristan moans in pleasure and props his hand against the tree, running the fingers of the other through Galahad's thick black curls. His knees bent from the melting pleasure and have a hard time supporting him, but he doesn't move; he is enchanted with the sight of Galahad, who eagerly sucks at his cock, moaning, his long lashes fluttering over impossibly dilated pupils. It's the obscene smacking and moaning that actually gets to him, to see, but also to hear Galahad's shameless, salivating worship of Tristan's cock, not too dissimilar with the passion with which Christians worship their God.

                He gently pulls away from Galahad's mouth and raises him to his feet, pushing him against the tree again. Galahad thirsts to occupy his mouth with anything that is Tristan and the latter is tempted to just grind mindlessly against the youth until they're coming and spilling all over themselves, but he bites back on that desire. Pressing his chest against the other's, he runs his palms over Galahad's arms, caressing the skin with one slow motion. Ignoring the bulge beneath Galahad's tunic, Tristan continues his little journey until his fingertips can reach the edge of it. He lifts it slowly, letting his blunt nails to scratch the gentle skin and strong muscles beneath, after which he fists Galahad's undercloth and tears it from his body.

                Galahad's head bumps the tree behind him as he gasps, the excitement of his hard cock being freed from the constraint and the pleasure of the chilled air licking at the slightly sweated skin. He seems to have caught up on Tristan's idea: he readily lifts his legs to clasp them firmly around Tristan's waist. Tristan gasps, and presses Galahad harder against the tree for support, his hands in the meanwhile gripping tight at Galahad's thighs.

                To deny that his eyes hadn't strolled up and down Galahad's legs would be a blatant lie. Galahad had always preferred to wear only the short tunic, come sun or snow. It revealed his legs a lot, of course, and it was a surprise that they weren't webbed with scars from the many battles. He has beautiful, strong legs; whomever he had taken to bed was a lucky man or woman.

                Now Tristan can't take his hands off those same legs even if their grip is support enough, he can't stop caressing the skin and kneading the muscles, which twitch every now and then beneath his ministrations.

                "Tristan... please..." Galahad moans and Tristan's cock jolts with arousal. He grips it with his hand and guides it into Galahad's ass, gently at first, but Galahad is bucking and moving his hips, practically forcing himself onto it. His face is twisted with the pleasure and pain and Tristan kisses his lips with adoration. They're kissing with frenzy and Galahad is loosening and tightening the grip he has on Tristan's waist until Tristan is fully inside Galahad. He feels the grip loosening again and grips Galahad's thighs, bucking his hips against him. Tristan wishes that they were lying so that he could slip, in and out, in and out, letting Galahad see how he's fucking his ass, but this arrangement works just as fine. This is not a promise for future intimate moments (and he tries not to think how many were inside Galahad before him), so he better makes the best of it.

                "Tristan... Tristan..." Galahad chants in his semi-delirious state, and Tristan loves every syllable, every moan and exhale that accompany it. His mind is hardly in control of his body now and his hips buck and buck against Galahad because every movement makes Galahad continue chanting and moaning and Tristan thinks he can never have enough of that. He feels his orgasm pooling and his body mindlessly snaps against the other, and he attacks the exposed neck of Galahad.

                The younger man cries and stiffens; Tristan feels the hot spurts spill over his chest. Then Galahad's ass becomes impossibly tight and it starts pulsating and Tristan is tipped over the edge. His eyes are probably hurting from screwing them so tight but he can't now, there's only the endless pleasure of being milked like a cow by Galahad's ass.

                Some time passes before both of them come to their senses. Tristan lets go of Galahad and they tumble down on the ground, Galahad's legs still spread open. Tristan opens his eyes to the wonderful sight that is Galahad: his flushed face, washed by the bliss of coming so hard; the ravaged pale neck; and his legs spread open for Tristan, the tunic rolled up to reveal Galahad's still hard cock, spotted with come, and beneath the slowly drooping balls, the hole of his ass, dark red, and from it dripping Tristan's own white come. It's a thing Tristan would gladly wake to every morning, he thinks.

                "Are you still going to call me a pup?" Galahad teases after some time of silence and intense breathing.

                Tristan murmurs something about bitches and heat and earns himself a benevolent kick in the shoulder.


End file.
